Stop! I want to take a picture, I announce, as the boys disc golf around the park where Nick played so many years ago. In my mind's eye, I see a flash of images: a little boy shinnying up and over the jungle gym like a monkey; careening down the sledding hill, then quickly tromping upward to do it again; charging balls on the soccer field. And now, thanks to the vision of a few and the hard work of many, the park that time forget has new life. Brightly colored discs whirl past stately trees and fall near fence lines and far corners that were seldom hiked and never seen. Now, the solitude is broken by the jangle of chains as well-aimed discs fly into baskets and players yelp their victory, not knowing as Jeff and Nick do, that the real victory is the course itself.
But the heart of the matter is what I really remember on this Thursday in June is another time, another place where father and son posed for me on a another disc golf course. Almost six years ago, senior year, Flagstaff. Time alters much, but love remains constant. Every moment together a cherished gift, even when I'm the one on the other side of the camera.
